


When Castle Touches Sky

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Gargoyles (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Fantasy, Gargoyles - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once John defended kings and castles, but treachery cost him his only love and his people. Cut adrift, he slips into a deep slumber and sleeps for one thousand years. When he awakens, the world is far stranger than he remembered it. </p><p>Inspired by the animated series Gargoyles, “When Castle Touches Sky” is a dark tale of betrayal, violence, loss, and eventually, love. </p><p>Here there be monsters– and not all of them are so obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is inspired by the animated television show Gargoyles. That does not mean, however, that you need to be familiar with the show to enjoy this. While I am using the same general premise, this will contain new concepts and storylines as well. 
> 
> If you would like a sneak peek at what John looks like at this story, please check out this[ amazing fan art](http://jinglebellfic.tumblr.com/post/128601100246/okay-so-urban-and-i-were-talking-about-her) jinglebellfic did!

_**London, Present Day** _

The first call came in at 6:15: explosion in Kensington, all hands on deck. Lestrade wrenched the steering wheel of his police car and pressed down on the gas. His tires spun for a moment, trying to find purchase on the wet street, before catching and propelling him forward. Beside him, Sherlock grinned, wide and a bit manic.

“An explosion in the richest neighborhood in London? Oh, someone knew it was my birthday.” He smacked the doorframe as if he could urge the car forward faster. In the cold cast of the streetlights filtering through the passenger window, he looked like a wild rider, answering the call of the hunt.

“Yeah, I am sure that’s exactly what they were thinking. ‘Let’s pop off to some rich bastard’s place and make some noise. We hear Holmes is turning thirty-three today.’ Christ.”

“Thirty-two.” Sherlock squirmed in his seat and tugged on his jacket. He slumped.

“Three. Unlike some people, I can actually keep track of dates.” Lestrade popped open his window and blew smoke out through the crack. He’d been trying to quit, but if there was ever a day he needed the nicotine it was today. Birthdays were bad enough, but add in things exploding and his nerves were on fire.

The second call squawked over the radio just as Lestrade was finishing his cigarette: shots fired, same address.

“Bloody hell.” Lestrade swerved around a car that refused to move out of the way. Next to him, Sherlock vibrated.

Ahead they could see emergency lights reflecting off the expensive front of buildings that lined Kensington. It looked like damn near every copper in the city was there, along with every search and rescue team. The street had been blocked off, but people still lingered nearby, eager to see what all the fuss was about. A few tired officers steered them away from the glass front apartment building, a modern monstrosity now billowing smoke from its top floor.

Before he could pull to a complete stop, Sherlock opened his car door and leapt out. His coat tails whipped out behind him as he flew through the crowd, quickly dodging anyone who tried to block his path.

“Sherlock! Goddamnit.” Lestrade wrenched the keys out of the ignition and took off after him.

A second explosion rocked the ground, showering debris onto the street from up high. Lestrade ducked behind a car, shielding himself from pebbles and glass. Once the dust settled, he spotted Sherlock running towards the building, heedless of the smoke, glass, and masonry raining down from above. Of course he’d take advantage of the chaos to slip past the people trying to contain the scene.

Lestrade smacked the side of the car and took off at a sprint. The damn fool was going to get himself killed and where exactly would that leave Lestrade, eh? With a mountain of paperwork. He flashed his badge at one of the officers urging people away and made a beeline toward Sherlock. Bent over inspecting a large piece of masonry, Sherlock ignored his shouts and continued to run a gloved hand over it. He wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s bicep and tugged him none too gently to his feet. Sherlock grunted his annoyance.

“Oh yes, just stand around in the middle of a warzone. Pay no mind to the gunfire overhead or the explosions.” He pulled Sherlock along behind him, angling them both towards a respectable distance from the building.

Sherlock wrestled his arm free. “I was gathering data.”

“From a bit of cement?”

A large chunk of stonework slammed into the roof of a police car, tearing metal and shattering glass. Lestrade pulled them both down for cover.

“Claw marks!” Sherlock screamed in his ear over the sound of people panicking.

“What? Explosions don’t leave claw marks. Stay down, damn it.” He pushed Sherlock down, hands firm on his shoulders. “What the hell would leave claw marks?”

“I have no idea!” Even without looking at him, Lestrade could hear the wide grin plastered on Sherlock’s face.

 

* * *

  
  


_**Scotland, 994 AD** _

 

Their kind had no need for names. What good were names? They couldn’t encapsulate the unique sound of wings beating against hot air or the taste of magic on their tongues. No, they could not wield magic; they _were_ magic and to give something a name was its own brand of magic. It gave the person power over the thing named. They had no names for each other. They were equals--pack--and they held no sway over one another.

This, perhaps, is why the humans were preoccupied with giving them names. They saw in the cut of their stone that they were unbridled, free, as chaotic and controlled as a summer storm, and they feared his kind. They had bestowed plenty of names upon them in attempt to control: angel, monster, curse, blessing, guardian, jailer--

“John.”

The name broke through his reverie. Strange, he hadn’t heard the prince climbing the staircase behind him. Careless. The alliance between human and Gargoyle hung by a gossamer thread. A stiff breeze could snap it. No matter his care for them, humans were often duplicitous. His father had taught him better, even if his heart tried to convince him otherwise.

“Your Highness.” He shifted on the outcropping that was his home perch. From it, he gazed down upon the castle, the muddied roads and squat buildings that surrounded it, and beyond to the rolling fields, now dusted with snow. The old river cut through it all, slow and stately. Night pressed in, blanketing the land in darkness and silence.

“Shall we continue our lessons?” The prince ducked his head out of the window and smiled up at him. Even in the shadow, the young prince’s eyes sparkled, two beautiful cut gems, blue and perfect. John had heard the servants once speak of the prince’s eyes: endless, they had said, clear as a spring day after the rain. They looked like no sky John knew, loathe he was to admit it, but in certain light, the prince’s eyes glinted like moonlight.

“I believe your mother has expressed concern about you spending so much time up here.” John stood and stretched, snapping his wings against the cold night air. He curled the talons on his feet against the stone of the castle, keeping his balance sure and strong.

At this rebuke, the prince scrunched his nose in displeasure. “Mother expresses concern about a great many things. Just yesterday she was certain that I would catch my death because I had dared to go to bed with my hair wet.”

“A valid concern, your Highness.”

“William, John. Remember?”

John shivered for a moment. The prince had given him the name John when he was but a boy. _Like the apostle_ , the word had hissed between missing teeth. He supposed it was better than what the soldiers had taken to calling him. _Goliath_. Humor danced in their eyes any time they said it. John was no giant, though the captain of the guard swore that the name was an honorific, not an insult.

“You did promise, John. When there was no one else around.” The prince stepped back from the window, beckoning John inside with a gentle wave of his hand.

Hope and doubt warred in John’s chest: hope that there would be many opportunities to spend time alone and doubt that it would happen. He cast a look into the room before climbing inside; the small room that William had claimed as his study was empty save for them.

John tucked his wings close, draping them over his shoulders like a cloak. No matter how often he spent indoors with the humans, he could not suppress the sharp spike of fear at being trapped. His tail flicked. Memories of his first time in this room paraded through his mind: talons tearing at the stone and tail toppling the chair and table. He left out a huff. Childish. He was no hatchling. He was a warrior. A small room should be nothing to fear after facing down countless enemies and rending them apart with his bare hands. He willed his tail still.

“I did promise. William.” The name never failed to surprise him. It sounded strange in his mouth, tangling around his tongue and fangs.

William smiled. A smile from the prince, John had heard, was a rare thing; precious as the gems that decorated the king’s crown. They made appearances only when something pleased him unexpectedly. John surprised him nightly. While their occurrences seemed to be regular as sunrise, John treasured them, imagining them warming his skin just as daylight might. Despite his best efforts, John felt the corners of his mouth turn up.

William snapped the window closed behind John, then brushed past him. “I don’t know how you can stand to be out there in winter. I’m half-frozen already. Feel.” William thrust a hand out at John. His fingers, always so pale and thin, trembled in the space between them.

John stared at his hand. How perfectly warm would it feel in his own hand, pressed against his chest? Temptation, the friar had called it. He dug his talons into his palms. “I doubt I would be much warmer. The cold doesn’t bother me as it does you.”

William’s hand dropped, fingers curling at his side. His smile wilted. “I suppose that is true. You even have snow clinging to you. It must be nice not to feel it.” He cleared his throat; his eyes cast about the room, fingers flexing in an odd show of nervousness. “You were showing me how to throw someone. I’ve been practicing, of course, but the soldiers fear hurting me. Ridiculous.”

“When have you had the chance to practice? I was only showing you last night.”

“During the day, of course.” William rolled the sleeves of his tunic up, baring pale arms lightly dusted with freckles and moles. Muscles, new and still beginning to truly take shape, flexed under his skin. A ring of bruises, the exact mirror of a hand print, decorate one of his wrists.

John growled. “Your mother and father will grind me to dust and scatter me to the four winds. You promised you would be careful.”

“And careful I was. This is nothing more than the evidence of a small scuffle.” William eased into a stance, his body loose and ready to strike. “Come on then. Show me how to avoid getting bruised.”

 

* * *

 

“You care for him too much,” his second muttered next to him.

John snapped his wings closed, banking sharply, before opening them again. He let his feet skim the river for a moment, gliding between air and water. His lessons with William were growing more frequent and as the prince grew in strength, so too did the strange flutter in John’s stomach. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Liar. I can always tell when you are lying.” In the moonlight, she looked more ghost than flesh and blood. Her stone was white, bleached by the sun, and she disappeared easily against the harsh snow that clung to the land. While he was the color of sand, of dirt, she shone, her stone sparkling prettily when the moonlight hit her just right. She, more than any of his kind, looked human, angelic almost. Perhaps that was why William had taken to calling her Mary, though John felt the name ill-fitting. There was little about the Holy Mother that suited her. Blood and sword bedecked her more often than a gentle hand or a kind smile. He wouldn’t ask for anyone else at his side in combat. The humans often forgot that angels were warriors.

“The prince is…,” he let the sentence trail off and die between them. What more was there to say? William simply was and in his very being he took up all the room in John’s mind. Ignoring him had proven fruitless. Once he had set his eyes on John, that had been it; their fates were twined together, for good or ill.

“The prince is human.” Mary turned sharply, edging them back to the castle. “And you, stone of my stone, are not.”

John growled, a boulder scraping across pitted earth. “I know what I am.”

“Do you? Many of us have begun to wonder. We have seen the way you look at him.”

“And how do I look at him?”

“Like he is the very rock you are carved from.” Mary smiled. Her face twisted strangely around it, as if she knew a deep, dark secret. “Tell me, if you were given the chance, would you take him to your perch? Have you danced for him, fluttered your wings to show him how strong you really are?” Mirth tugged at her words, softening the rebuke.

“I would break him.” John landed atop a parapet. He did not fold his wings about him as he did when around humans. Instead, he stretched them wide, letting sinew and muscle sing at the freedom of being able to do so.

Mary came to rest next to him. In the distance, the first glimmer of daybreak shone. Soon, they would return to stone and wait for night to fall once more. For the last few moments, John kept his eyes wide open. He never got to see the sun fully and descriptions painted a pale picture for him. Dawn was his only time to see the sun. He treasured it.

As the sun slowly crept over the horizon, Mary slipped her hand into his. She felt as he did; she was a touchstone, a mark to return to and ground himself. Her finger, curved with small claws, did not feel as William’s would have and John took comfort in it.

Her lips ghosted over his cheek before alighting against the corner of his mouth. “You would not break me.”

His chest ached as if cracked. She, his second, his equal, would be the perfect mate. He would never know the sadness of watching her age or the heartbreak of being cast aside when the novelty of first love finally faded. Together they would form bedrock, solid enough to be built upon. It should be the easiest choice of his life.

It should.

Sunlight washed over them. Slowly they turned to stone, their fingers still entwined, their bodies still angled close.

 

* * *

 

John slowly came awake, stone giving way to flesh. His eyes scrapped closed for a moment, before snapping back open. The last streaks of orange disappeared beyond the horizon. He glanced up. Clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out the early stars and promising a cold and stormy night ahead. Spring came slowly to the land, weakly warming the ground during the day, but retreating scared as a lamb at night. Frost would soon sap what heat had gathered.

“Brother, it is good to see you awake finally. Perhaps age is catching up with you after all. I feared the stone had finally taken you.” A deep rumble of a laugh echoed across the tower, soon followed by the large bulk of his clutch sibling crawling down the side of the wall. His stunted wings fluttered uselessly on his back, though the lack of flight never seemed to bother him. No, he had always seemed happy to crawl and scramble, leap and throw. The earth suited him; he was made of dark stone, deep as a forbidden cave. “The humans are celebrating. A royal feast!”

John snorted. “You are just disappointed that you will not get my portions tonight.”

“Ha! As if your portions would even begin to fill my belly. You are nothing but skin and bones, Goliath.”

“Don’t start.”

“If anyone around here is a giant, it’s me. Trust the humans to get even that wrong. The prince should have called you David, wee little thing that you are.”

John launched himself at his companion. He swiped with his claws, the blow softened to keep from doing any real damage. He moved lightning fast, wings snapping and tail lashing out. Soon, the two were tumbling down the wall in a tangle of arms, wings, and legs. They landed with a crash. John quickly gained the upperhand and pinned his friend to the ground. “Relent.”

“Never.”

John tightened his grip, pushing him harder into the dirt. “Cry for mercy.”

“I can’t hear you. There seems to be a fly buzzing about my ear.”

John pressed his full weight down, a growl rumbling in his chest.

“Fine! You win! Mercy.”

“I knew you would see things my way eventually.” John hopped off, and brushed dirt from his kilt, before helping his friend to his feet. It was true; the name Goliath was better suited to him. John barely came up to his shoulder and was half as wide, but he had spent his entire life proving that what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in sheer stubbornness. The rest of the pack learned to listen when John spoke, even though he was younger than many of them.

A woman gasped nearby. The two of them turned to see an older woman, clutching a basket to her chest. When John met her gaze, she turned pale and made a sign to ward evil off before darting away.

“Do you think they will ever look at us and not see demons?” John frowned, his stomach and chest now hollowed out, emptiness replacing joy.

“Hmph. Imagine the horns don’t help much.” He flicked at one of the horns peeking out from John’s hair. John ducked away. “Oh, come now. Can you blame them? We look like monsters to many of them.”

“Funny. I might say the same about some of them.”

“Always so serious, John. You’re putting my appetite off.”

“Impossible. Come on then. Let’s be sure to give the royal family our regards.”

 

* * *

 

He knew as soon as his father had suggested opening the castle doors to the people of the town that this dinner was something sinister. The only bright spot in all of this was that John would be in attendance. Granted, he hadn’t told his parents that he had invited the leader of the Gargoyles, but it was his birthday after all. Surely he should be allowed to invite whomever he wanted.

The feast had been underway for nearly an hour, but William didn’t allow John’s absence to bother him. The Gargoyles slept during the day, or at least they went dormant. Whether or not they actually slept as people did, he hadn’t been able to ascertain. John seemed baffled by the concept of dreaming, so perhaps they didn’t sleep at all, but simply stopped. They certainly resembled nothing more than stone during the day.

He couldn’t help but find them fascinating and John even more so. While some people feared the Gargoyles, muttering about curses and the power of the Devil, William saw something wondrous. The Devil didn’t create; he destroyed, and the Gargoyles were fiercely protective. They had already defended his people countless times. Despite John’s short temper, he always believed in preserving instead of destroying. He had the mark of God on him, not demon. He may not be made in the image of God, but he was more intelligent than most and there was a rough kindness about him that William had grown increasingly fond of.

Fond? No, that wasn’t the right word for it at all. Cared for. Loved, if he allowed himself to tend towards fanciful things when he was alone in his room at night. John had never found his questions odd ( _why was John sand colored but Mary snow, why did he have a tail but some of the others did not, why, why, why_ ), never barked at him to be quiet. He had even let William touch his feet, which were fascinating. John’s legs were built more like a dog’s than a human’s. Made of powerful muscle and tipped in sharp claws, John always looked as if he was about to launch into flight, his large, bat-like wings dwarfing his compact body.

John was beautiful. Fascinating. Wonderful. His.

A murmur spread through the hall and he raised his head, peering past the nobleman who had been talking to him for the past fifteen minutes with no care that William wasn’t listening. His father had risen to his feet, goblet raised. The hall quieted.

“I thank you each for coming to this feast. My son, William, has finally come of age, and this deserves cheer and celebration. The Lord has blessed us with his continued improving health.” Several people nodded and politely clapped their hands. Before he could continue, the doors to the hall opened with a loud creak.

William’s heart jumped, beating as fast as a bird’s wing. John stepped into the room, trailed by his brother and Mary. He felt more than saw his mother stiffen beside him.

“How dare--,” she hissed and rose to her feet.

“Mother.” He laid a hand on her arm. “I invited them.”

“You would invite bad luck upon you on your birthday? Why?” Her eyes widened in fear. “They are ill spirits and while your father may trust them to guard the castle, I will not have them sit at our dinner table.” She spun and pointed at John. “Out! You have no right to be here and no place among my family. Do not dare darken my doorstep again.”

John froze. In that moment, he had never looked more monstrous, features twisted in rage and damaged pride. He flashed his fangs and his eyes glowed white in the darkened hall. “Apologies, your Majesty, I came only to wish the Prince good tidings on his birthday.”

She laughed. “Good tidings? I have heard what the soldiers call you. Goliath. Bully. Giant. Monster. You bring nothing but ill here. Your kind was born in blood and fire and will die in the same. I will not have you take my only son with you.”

John nodded, his eyes finally falling. Though his gaze dropped, his shoulders remained straight, his posture hard and unrelenting.

“Please, my dear wife, let us put aside old fears. Today is a happy day. After all, William is a man today and in a year’s time, he will be married.”

Sound washed out of the room, leaving behind a dull rumble in William’s ears. Married? He had known his father had been speaking of it for some time, but he had not known that negotiations had moved forward so quickly. He sought out John’s eyes, hoping for some objection--anything-- but all he saw was the flash of his tail as John stormed out of the room.

 

 


	2. Wrath

Rain lashed hard across John’s face and sharp knives of cold cut through him. He ignored the shout of his brother and the look on Mary’s face as he marched from the dining hall and out into the courtyard.

 _Married_. Of course, this moment would come. He was no fool. William belonged to someone else. The moment he had been born, small and far too pale, his parents began to plan.

But oh, how John had let himself wonder: William’s scent on his skin, the feel of his hair under his palm, the soft arch of his back as John leaned into him, claiming, marking. He wanted William and in those quiet moments in the library, John saw desire flicker in William’s eyes and heard it in the catch of his breath. Perhaps William thought of him as nothing more than an oddity, something to play with and then cast aside when duty called, but John let his mind linger over shared moments and imagined a world where things were different.

Stupid.

“John!” William’s cry washed away in the rising wind. John snapped his wings and turn his head towards the sky. The clouds rolled over him, eager to swallow him whole if he just gave into the urge to soar.

“John, please.”

Despite the war raging inside of him, John turned and looked. He tightened his jaw at the sight of him. _Make me stone, make this pass and leave not a mark_ , John prayed. His gut pitched towards the ground, certain that there was no earth below him anymore.

William slipped in the mud and fell to his knees. His hair lay lank and damp across his forehead, his brilliant curls sapped of color. He looked up at John. In the grey of the night, William looked nothing more than a spirit, a wisp of a memory. For a moment, John saw the earth open up, an early grave welcoming William into its embrace. He blinked and the vision was gone, leaving behind only the broken face of William staring up at him.

“John, I didn’t know. Father hadn’t told me and if he had—”

“If he had, what would you have done differently? What could you have done differently?”

William’s face fell. “I had hoped we could have remained friends.”

A laugh ripped through John’s throat. “Is that what we were?”

William swallowed and looked away. “Was there ever any doubt we were anything else?”

“You should get back inside, your Highness. You have a party to attend.” John clutched the title to his chest, his only weapon against a man who had disarmed him.

“You were mine.” William bit off the word. He struck the ground with a clenched fist.

The last of his strength left John. His head dipped. “Yes. But were you ever mine?”

William flinched. He raised one hand in supplication, mud clinging to his fingers. “John.” A prayer. An offering.

An empty promise. They never were, never could have been. Gargoyles don’t dream, but for a moment, John had tried and this was the price for such dreams. His heart felt nothing more than shale, crumbling in his chest.

He willed his ears deaf, let the thunder roll over him and drown out William’s pleading. He turned away from William—  _the prince —_  and took flight.

 

* * *

 

Mary found him hunkered down in the branches of a tree. In the dark, he looked like the monster the humans believed them to be. His face twisted into a mask of anger and hurt. He growled, a terrible rumble echoed by the storm. His growl grew in pitch the closer she drew to him. She answered with her own.

“You do not scare me.” She pulled herself into the tree. The branches creaked and swayed under her weight, but held. She wrapped her hand around the branch above her, ready to pull herself up next to him, when he pounced. In a blur, he thundered into her, crashing and sending them both tumbling through the branches and down onto the wet earth below. She welcomed him with open arms, letting him pin her with ease.

He panted against her neck, teeth nipping at the flesh. His tail lashed behind him, smacking against the trunk of the tree. She turned her head and licked at his cheek, his ear, the deceptively soft skin under his jaw. His tail fell limp.

Working a hand free, she ran it along his hair, before digging her nails into his nape, marking him as her own and forcing him to meet her gaze. He hissed, but didn’t pull away. “They will always despise us, _leth-sheise_. They use us for protection, but they do not love us. They can’t love. We are playthings to them. Remember this.”

She bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Copper danced along her tongue and she lapped at his mouth. Against her thigh, she felt the heavy weight of his cock growing hard. She snaked a hand between them and wrapped her hand around his length through the cloth of his kilt. He stilled under her hand. His limbs shook around her, a poor imitation of a cage. She squeezed him and dragged her hand up his cock, before bringing it back down once more in a rough jerk.

“We are not them.” She twisted her hand and arched into him. “We are made of something much stronger.”

He growled into her mouth. His claws scratched along her hips, searching for purchase, before shoving robe and kilt aside. He hiked her knees up and drove into her, the first thrust hard and unforgiving. Her breath left her in a grunt. Gentleness was not in either of their natures. No, they were warriors and this was like any other fight or battle. Meeting his thrusts, she rocked her hips up, letting her own desperation drive her just as his drove him. Flesh slapped flesh, only punctuated by the grunt and sigh of exertion. He came with a broken sob caught in his throat, his teeth bared against her skin.  He pulled out as quickly as he entered, his cock still hard and coming, painting her skin and clothes with his scent.

She let her legs fall lax in invitation and he bit and kissed his way down. His blond head disappeared between her legs.The first flash of his tongue was perfection. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, willing him closer. His tongue followed. This was her right and she rode him, hips snapping at each pass of his tongue, until she too cried out. The sharp bite of his teeth in the flesh of her thigh sparked high and bright as she came. Pain and ecstasy entwined. When they both abated, John climbed back up. The hard line of his cock brushed against her stomach, reminding her that he would soon take her again and again.

He trembled against her. Rage and sorrow laid claim to his limbs and his breath caught as he buried it once more against her neck. Neither of them were made for cradling or coddling, but she offered herself as an anchor, tying him to the here and now. He clung to her.

The rain pounded down on them both; the storm refused to relent.

 

* * *

 

The bite of winter dulled, giving way to the caress of spring. They built their nest deep in the dark reaches of the castle, far away from where servants would dare pry. John cradled each egg in his hand, before carefully placing them among the cold, wet stones. Gargoyles were born in darkness and John’s days felt just as dark.

His brother clapped him hard on the shoulder after they finished completing the nest. Pride tugged at his cheeks and John wondered at it. Should he feel pride? These were his offspring waiting to be hatched. Surely he should feel something other than a resigned dread. He didn’t hate Mary; on the contrary, a part of him loved her dearly, but it was comparing a candle to the full force of a bonfire. It paled in comparison to what he had allowed himself to feel for the prince. His shoulders bowed with the feeling of wretchedness.

Flights away from the castle became his only source of comfort. Each night, he ranged further and further out. Most nights he went alone. He preferred it that way. Alone his mind could wipe itself clean. He was nothing more than a pair of wings, beating harder and harder, until sweat drenched him. Those nights he’d return to the castle, feeling strangely light and empty. Mary greeted him back at their nest with fresh bites and licks, laying claim as she rode him hard, her thighs a tight brace around his own.

Other nights, the storm claimed him. It rolled in over his brow and clouded his thoughts. On those nights, James joined him. He was not jovial like his brother, nor did he have the hard edge that Mary did. He was the silence in the storm, the quiet before a clap of thunder. He wore potential like a cloak and his rage flashed sudden and bright as lightning, vanishing just as quickly. The humans feared him more than any other of John’s kind. There was nothing about him that looked human. His snout was permanently twisted in a growl and his bright eyes hid under the thick ridge of his forehead. A battle long ago left its tale on him, pitting and marring the skin on one side of his face and chest. Even in stone form, it was there, making him look like a weathered, ancient statue.

Perhaps because of the fear the humans had of him, James balanced it with gentleness. While Mary tended towards hate and loathing of them, James pitied the humans.

“Their lives are very short, John.” His voice was a gentle rumble by John’s side.

He resisted the urge to recoil at hearing the name the prince gave him. For all that it went against their nature, the gargoyles had adapted to the use of names. His brother was the only one who hadn’t bothered to adopt a name for himself, choosing to avoid spending time with the humans as much as possible.

“I am aware of that.”

“Then you should also know that they have a hard time learning from their mistakes. So little time on this earth and they have to be constantly moving. Never look back. Forward, forward.” He snorted through his muzzle. “It must be a tiring existence.”

“I would think that would make them all the more desperate to do things right in the time they have.” John dove through the clouds. In the distance, he could see fires burning. There were no villages that way, only rocky coastline and the cold spray of the sea.

“And how do they determine what is right? No, I think the humans simply do the best they can.” He cleared his throat. “The prince is doing what he believes is right. He’s the heir to the throne and a lot rests upon his shoulders.”

John ignored him. The knowledge that James was right did nothing to soothe the hurt. John knew of duty and the way it weighed on your shoulders, but what his mind might argue, his heart could not abide.

“What do you make of that?” He pointed at the fires, now much clearer as they approached. What first seemed indistinct in the distance, now resolved into the shapes of an encampment.

“Raiders,” James growled.

“If they are this close, the castle must be the target.” He counted their number. It was a small force, easy enough to deal with and they were not making any attempts to conceal themselves. Whoever was leading them was a fool. John spiraled downward, gaining momentum as he tightened his circle. He heard James swear behind him, but he quickly followed.

 

* * *

 

His brother was an idiot. He loved him, of course, but John often thought a bit too much. John seemed to only be happy when he was at war, either on the battlefield or in his head. Ridiculous way to live, but then it was bound to happen when a gargoyle spent so much time around humans. Humans twisted them all up.

He huffed and shifted his massive bulk. Next to him, Knight ducked his head nervously. The pair of them were a study in contrast. Where he was large, Knight was small. The humans obviously took great pleasure in the name they gave him. While they pretended that ‘Goliath’ was an honorific, they made no attempts to hide that ‘Knight’ was nothing more than a joke. Let them laugh. They had never seen Knight actually fight. While John was the obvious warrior, full of training and strength, Knight simply survived. This made him all the more terrifying. Many an enemy found their end after underestimating Knight’s abilities.

“Knight!” The voice of the captain of the militia, Tremaine, floated up to their wall. “I am searching for Goliath. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

Knight peeked over the edge of the wall and tilted his head. While many thought of them as bird-like, Knight moved more like a young hound, still unsure of its suddenly long legs. “H-h-he’s out d-d-doing patrol in the west, along the c-c-coast.”

“Blast.” Tremaine tugged a scroll out of the pouch on his belt. “We’ve just received word of a force to the east. It doesn’t sound particularly large, but if we could get a better idea of what we might be dealing with, it would be great help.”

“W-w-we could help.” Knight looked back at him, a grin already lighting up his face. They rarely got a chance to leave the castle.

“John would be cross with us. We are supposed to stay here,” he muttered to Knight. He watched the younger gargoyle’s face fall. “But I suppose if it is just to be a quick scouting mission, John will never be the wiser and Mary will be here.”

“Yes!” Knight jumped into the air, his four small wings flapping eagerly.

“Excellent. I’ll show you the best path to take. It’s probably for the best that you won’t be flying.”

Knight hopped down from the wall and he climbed down after him. He may not be able to fly like the rest of his clan, but he could easily make up for it in speed. His stride could out pace the fastest horse. The two of them followed the captain out of the castle walls. At this time of night, most were long asleep. A few guards watched them pass.

Tremaine lowered his voice. “I am hoping we can deal with this quietly. The King knows of the situation and has agreed that it would be best to not alarm anyone just yet. It may be nothing.” He lead them into the nearby treeline, following a small hunting path. If they continued this way, it would lead them to the coast, but he stepped off the path and guided them deeper into the trees. Soon the fires from the castle walls could no longer be seen.

Knight stopped suddenly. His large ears swiveled on his head, before going flat against his skull. The snap of a branch up ahead soon revealed the reason for his alertness.

Tremaine held up a hand. “Hold. It’s one of my men I sent on ahead.”

A guard stepped out from behind a tree. He was dressed simply, foregoing the armor most of the soldiers wore. “Ah, good. You found them. Pity. I had hoped more of them would come.” His accent marked him as not from their lands, though he spoke their language well.

“The others are out on patrol and one stayed behind.” Tremaine stood at rest, his hand casually laying on the hilt of his sword.

“Hmmm… I suppose it will have to do.” The soldier flicked his hand and suddenly they were surrounded by more soldiers stepping out from behind trees.

Knight whimpered. He darted his eyes to his companion, waiting for orders.

“Fly!” He launched himself at the soldier. Claws bit into flesh and with a satisfying rip, the soldier’s guts were exposed to the air. He turned, not bothering to waste any more time on the soldier, and howled. If he made himself a large enough target, it may give Knight time to get back to the castle. Before he could attack Tremaine, he tasted magic in the air. It burned his nose and made his flesh ripple in pain. Nearby, he heard Knight scream, then silence. He knew this feeling. It was like when the sun touched them, just as they turned to stone, but something was wrong. Dawn was still hours away and it never hurt like this. Even as he thought this, his joints locked up and he fell to the ground.

Tremaine’s boots came into his line of sight. “The spell works much faster than I thought it would. Well done.”

Another set of feet came into view. From this angle, he could make out little more than well-made boots and the embroidered hem of a robe.  Nobility, then. He growled up at the pair of them, willing his body to move. For his trouble, Tremaine kicked him hard in the chin, snapping his face up and away from them both. Just out of reach lay Knight, already frozen in stone.

 

* * *

 

Mary knew where she stood in the grand scheme of things. She was John’s mate, but not his lover. She loved him in the abstract, but there were only so many spots in John’s heart. He was an idiot for falling in love with a human. Humans dealt in deceit and heartbreak. John was still young, but Mary could remember when the humans had hunted their kind. It was not so far off that she had grown complacent. They may have formed a trust with some humans, but most were simply looking for an excuse to kill them all.

She ran a hand along the wall. The castle offered them protection only because the royal family extended it to them. There was ancient magic at work here; a gargoyle needed a place to protect, but humans often feared what they did not understand. Still, this was the best place for her young to hatch, deep within the dungeons.

She turned a corner and stopped short. Two soldiers stood over her nest, hammers held high. At their feet lay the shattered remains of the eggs, the hatchlings dashed open the rocks. One of them swung a hammer at her head.

After that all she saw was red; all she tasted was human blood.

 

* * *

 

John dropped the limp body at his feet. He wiped a blood covered hand across his brow, banishing the film of sweat that had gathered there. To his left, he heard James roaring and the terrified shouts of the men who had chosen to fight instead of running for their lives. It had been easy work to dispatch them; while there was a good number of them, they were disorganized. A few well-placed swipes and their moral broke.

“Come, James. Dawn will be upon us in short order and I wish to report this to Tremaine.” He leapt and spread his wings, trusting that James would follow. There was enough time to make the captain of the guard aware of the issue, but it would be close. He snapped his wings, urging the wind to catch and carry him faster. He did not like to be gone this long from the castle. It made his skin itch.

He propelled himself through the night, eagerly awaiting the sight of its dark stone walls. He banked below the cloud cover and that’s when the smell hit him.

Fire consumed the village surrounding the castle. The thick smoke obscured his vision and made his eyes burn. He coughed and tried to drag in a lungful of clean air, only to find none. He dove and fury licked at his heart. Who would dare attack the town and where was his clan?

Soldiers, clad in the same armor as the ones he had just killed, chased town’s people through the streets, herding them towards the river. Fear clenched his stomach. Where the group he had just dealt with had been disorganized, this force fought as well as any seasoned unit. He had fallen for a trap, laid by some unseen hand, and now the humans were paying for his distraction.

He stormed past, catching and killing any soldiers that dared to get in the way of his goal. At the pace he was setting, he would quickly out fly James. The older gargoyle would just have to catch up.

The great gate into the castle stood wide open. He landed hard in the courtyard. Flames licked every wood surface, throwing up smoke and heat in all directions.

“Guards! Tremaine!” He spun in place, searching for the guards that should be defending the castle. Instead, he was met with silence. He had not seen Mary in the town, nor was there any sign of her here. He charged through the flames, ignoring the way it licked at his clothes. Their nest was deep enough within the castle that it might have been spared. He moved toward the tower that housed the entrance to the lower levels.

“Searching for your mate, demon? Last I saw of her, she was being engulfed in flames, along with what remained of your eggs.” Tremaine appeared through the parting smoke, blade at the ready. Pain erupted in John’s shoulder as the blade found its home in his flesh. Tremaine placed his boot on John’s chest and jerked the blade free. John collapsed in a heap.

“See! I told you they could be killed. Just flesh and blood.” Tremaine traced his blade through the air. “Come on, then. Let’s see what the mighty Goliath can do.”

John staggered to his feet. Blood poured from his wound; his vision wavered. Mary dead and Tremaine, a man he once thought of as loyal and steadfast, taunting him? The world had tipped on its head and John was left staggering under the betrayal.

“Why?” John threw the word down, a gauntlet demanding satisfaction.

“You know why. The King kept you as lap dogs, parading you around and treating you as though you were something precious. You twisted him. The man I served vanished once you got your claws into him.” He slashed at John again, but the strike was wide and uncontrolled. John stepped back away from the intended blow. “Stand and fight, demon!”

If he wanted a demon, then John would give him one. John shoved aside the pain and pounced, claws extending and ready to rip Tremaine apart. An arrow ripped through his right wing and he fell once more. He howled in impotent rage as a group of archers appeared, led by a man he did not recognize. This would be the end of him. Tremaine raised his sword, ready to bring down the final blow.

An answering howl ripped through the night and the dark form of James plummeted from the sky. He grabbed Tremaine by the throat and hefted him him up into the air. With a snap of his wings, James carried him up and away, only to drop down onto the unforgiving cobblestone below. Tremaine’s scream ended in the harsh crunch of bone.

The man simply tilted his head and raised a hand. The archers lowered their bows, but kept their arrows notched and at the ready. John attempted to stand, but his legs shook with exhaustion.

James came to rest next to John. He snapped his wings over them both as he helped his leader to his feet. “The others?”

John shook his head and leaned heavily against James. “I do not know.”

“But I do.” The man’s face twisted in a smile. “I must thank you for dealing with that loose end. Tremaine was, of course, useful in getting your...clan out of the way. They won’t be bothering anyone for quite some time. I was indebted to him for that.” He kicked the now dead man’s body. “I hate owing anyone.”

“Where are they?”

“Oh, the last I saw of them, they were nothing more than rock. Useful for birds nesting but not much else. Perhaps once we put the fires out, I’ll have them dragged back here to decorate the castle.” He sniffed in disdain. “I hadn’t planned on the fire, but Mary and the King put up a bit of a fight.”

Cold dread crept along John’s spine. “William?”

“We thought you would never ask.” He clapped and two soldiers tossed William out into the center of the crowd.

The prince fell hard, arms bound behind his back. A dark bruise marred his face; his right eye was swollen shut. Dried blood left a gruesome trail from his nose and down his chin. Despite his injuries, his one good eye shone bright with defiance.

“John,” he said. Hope had never more fully infused a word. John drank in his face like a man dying of thirst, even as terror filled his belly. William still trusted him, still believed that John would save them all.

The leader of the invading force grabbed William by the hair and pulled him up to his knees. “I had hoped I would convince you to defend my new castle for me.”

John spat blood at his feet.

“I thought as much. Perhaps time will dampen your temper.” He began to chant. The flames snuffed out and a blanket of cold rolled over them.

Dark magic swept over them. The cold of it burned. John could not outrun it, not as hurt as he was, and in the chant he heard his own demise. John shoved James away from him and screamed for him to flee. He stretched one hand out toward William. He could still save him. He _would_.

His knees locked as his feet fused with the ground. Stone crept up his arm, freezing it as he continued to reach for William. The prince strained at his bonds and fought against the tight grip the man had on his hair. His gaze stayed fixed on John as if he could will himself across the intervening distance.

“Pity. You would have been such a useful watchdog. Sleep well, _Goliath_.”

“John, no!” William’s scream cut through John and echoed in his ears.

Darkness crept into John’s vision, but not quick enough to block out the sight of a blade slicing across William’s throat.

 

 


	3. Meetings

Sound built slowly; it came in waves, cresting and washing over him. The blaring of horns and shouts of people echoed in his ears. Next came smell. Smoke tickled at his nose and throat, leaving its acrid trace behind to linger. Was the castle under attack? Where were the others? _To arms! Defend the castle!_ He willed his mouth to open, for the words caught in his throat to bellow, but nothing came. His sight flickered, eyelids sticking together uncomfortably. He needed to see, but something in his stomach turned at the thought of fully opening his eyes.

William. Mary. His clan. His heart fell to dust in his chest. A slow, agonizing death awaited the mage who had taken everything from him. If they wanted to believe him a demon, then that’s exactly what he would give them. Never before had his blood sung with the need to hunt, to rend limb from limb. Its sweet siren song called for immediate action.

His muscles tensed and he twisted from his stance. Flecks of stone crumbled away from him and at last, wind brushed his skin. He fell to his knees and breathed deeply. What was once muffled came roaring in. The sound, the taste, the smell of it all left him reeling. Too much, too much. This had to be more trickery. He pressed his face to the ground and tried to calm the tremors running through his body. Under all the new information, he could still smell home: stone and earth, wood fires, the sharp bite of a Scottish winter. Impossible for a human to smell, but as real and necessary to him as the blood in his veins.

“Goliath?”

He raised his head. Before him a man stood in strange clothes; a trim blond beard lined his jaw and short (shorter than any style the humans had fancied in court) blond hair covered his head.  A watery pair of green eyes stared down at him and for a moment, the hairs on John’s head stood on end. Friend or foe? He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. The man had guards, but perhaps he was simply royalty.

The stranger spoke to him, though little of it made sense. John recognized his name and little more. The man gestured behind him and the guards flanking him stepped back. He slowly moved forward, hands raised. The closer he came, the louder John growled. Finally, he stopped and reached into his pocket. John tensed, even after seeing that the man was only reaching for a necklace. He dangled it from his fingers, then lobbed it as John’s feet.

John carefully picked it up. It was a fine chain of silver, far more delicate than any work he had ever seen before. From it hung a small, round medallion with intricate scrollwork. He sniffed it. Magic, but not the cold harshness of what he had felt before. This was far too subtle, like yeast and warmth wafting from an oven. The man mimicked John then made a move that suggested John should put the necklace on. Instead of putting it around his neck, John wrapped the chain around his fist. If it was dark magic, it would be easier to throw away the necklace.

“Goliath, I mean you no harm.” The man smiled. “That medallion is a simple bit of magic, but it helps with the language barrier. I assure you it will do nothing more than that. No trickery.”

John flinched. Where once the words were nothing more than gibberish, now they took form. “I have heard your kind say as much before.”

“Ah, the attack. Of course, it must feel like it just happened.” The man knelt in front of him. This close John could smell a spicy scent that clung to the man. “My name is Gerard Fantomas. You have been asleep for a very long time.”

John risked a glance around. Familiar stonework, now far more weathered than he remembered it, surrounded him, but beyond that he recognized nothing. The castle no longer stood on green grass, backed by rolling hills and forest. Towers rose all around him, structures far higher and greater than he had ever seen before. Clouds filled the sky above them, heavy and dark with rain, and seemingly just within his reach. The tower where he once slept disappeared into the darkness; its structure obscured by fog.

“Welcome to London, Goliath. We have a lot to talk about.”

 

* * *

 

This world was wrong. Everything buzzed and hummed as if man had grown afraid of silence. Perhaps they had. Humans always were fond of noise, and Fantomas was no different. His office had tapestries that spoke and moved trapped behind panes of glass. More magic, though Fantomas assured him it was not.

“As you can see, the castle was rebuilt, stone by stone, with, of course, the addition of plumbing and electricity.” He chuckled at that, though John could find no humor in it. Even with the aid of the medallion, much of what Fantomos spoke of remained confusing. “It was not a cheap bit of labor, but now that I have seen the results, I can certainly say it was worth it.”

“Results?”

“As I said, it was an astonishing level of magic that sealed you away. Stronger than any I have seen before, in fact. A curse, if you will, sealed in blood that stated you and your kind would remain asleep until such time that the castle rose to the clouds. An impossibility at the time, but easily enough done now if you have the money to do so.”

John closed his eyes as tendrils of sorrow wrapped around his heart. It had not been just blood that had been part of the ritual; it had been human sacrifice, with William as the lamb led to slaughter. The memory rang fresh in his mind, despite Fantomas’s insistence that it had been over one thousand years ago. He shook his head. Lost. All lost. “You said my kind. Did you find James? Is he here as well?”

“Ah yes, James. My men are fetching him now. I have already met the other two, Knight and… well, he refused to give us a name, but the very large one. You were the last to wake.”

Behind him, a whoop of excitement heralded the entrance of Knight. His brother followed shortly, though at a more sedate and serious pace. “Goliath, y-y-you’re awake! We thought y-you’d never wake up.”

“He was only asleep for a day longer than us.” His brother lumbered forward and they clasped arms. He rested his forehead against John’s and spoke so only the two of them could hear. “I failed you, brother. If I had acted faster or stayed at the castle—“

John shook his head, rolling his forehead against his brother’s. “The outcome would have been the same. Or worse. You are not to blame for what happened.” John released his arm. Though so much had been ripped away from him, having his clan certainly eased some of the hurt. Peace settled on his shoulders. Though they still may be in danger, John had those he trusted by his side.

His head snapped up at the sound of James roaring. Muscles, long disused, bunched and flexed, propelling John towards the sound. At the end of the hall, he saw James. In one fist, James hefted a guard above his head and shook him. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

John dropped the necklace and ran towards his friend. There were some things he’d rather not have the humans hear. “James, I’m here. You are safe. These men are not with the invading army.”

James turned to him, his eyes wide and wild. For a moment, he looked nothing like the gargoyle who John called friend. His face was twisted in fear and rage, a wild and hurt beast. “John.”

“Yes, friend. Put him down.” He rested a hand on James’s arm and gently pushed down. James sagged and the guard fell from his grasp.

“I thought you dead. When last I saw you, you were…” James grabbed him and tugged him close, clinging to him in a sea of fear. John held still, letting James inspect him. His eyes darted over John’s body, studying every bit for sign of injury. “They left their mark on you.” Anguish colored his words as his face fell.

John glanced down at his left shoulder. The skin was twisted, the flesh marred. James gently rubbed his thumb along the scar and though the pressure was light, pain sparked down John’s arm and caused his wing to spasm. He couldn’t silence the grunt the pain caused and James snatched his hand away.

“John?”

“It’s fine.” John resisted the urge to rub at the wound. Though the injury had been serious, slumbering should have healed it completely. James only bore scars because he had nearly died, the entire flank of him destroyed and only rebuilt through a long and arduous slumber. He gave a reassuring pat to James’s side. “What happened? Why were you so afraid?”

James ducked his head and pulled his wings in close to his body. “We slept?”

“Yes. Much longer than one day.”

James wet his lips. “The stone took me, but I could hear things, see them.”

“You were awake?” John blanched. A thousand years awake, but unable to move would break the mind of anyone, even someone as strong as James.

“Yes. No.” James growled. “I do not understand it. I saw you over and over again, blood drenched and crying out. Sometimes they killed you on the spot. Other times they cut chunks from you while you still lived and I could not stop them.”

John swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “Dreams, I think the humans call them.”

“But we do not dream.” James looked at him once more. He stilled his face and straightened his spine, as if ready for battle. “Am I mad, John?”

“No!” John squeezed his arm. “You are sound. These visions are nothing more than magic. We will figure out the cause of them and fix it.”

James nodded, though his shoulders slumped in defeat.

 

* * *

 

“C-c-come on, John!” Knight smiled up at him, eyes wide and expectant. His four small wings flapped and he hovered just above the ground. Excitement vibrated off of him. “We haven’t even looked at London y-yet. Gerard said we could.”

“Yes, I heard him, though I think it would not be the best of ideas.”

“We c-c-can keep to the rooftops. No one will see us. It’s just… the city is so big.” He gestured widely.

John took stock of the younger gargoyle. Usually Knight was one for caution, but the chance to explore apparently outweighed his fears. John sighed.

“Very well. Take my brother and James with you. It would be good to know the lay of the land.” James loved a good flight and, if nothing else, it would serve to distract his mind from the visions he saw.

“Murray.” His brother crossed him arms, his face overly grim.

“Ugh, really? Y-y-you are naming yourself after the spirit hunter?” Knight rolled his eyes and covered his face in shame.

John furrowed his brow in confusion. “Brother, I do not understand. Are there spirits in the castle?”

“He was a ghost buster. Also the voice of that talking cat. I liked the cat.” His brother glared at Knight. “He had a healthy appetite.”

Knight threw his head back and laughed, nearly toppling over in his mirth.

Perhaps James was right. The magic had addled all of their minds: James cursed with dreams and Knight and his brother cursed with speaking gibberish. Fear shook him, but neither Knight or his brother seemed concerned by their own actions.

“John, rid yourself of the frown. I have simply chosen a name for myself: Murray. He is an actor and very funny. He does these things called…? Hmmm…”

“Films!”

“Yes, films. We have watched several while you were sleeping.” His brother--Murray-- grinned wide and proud.

“But you hated the names that humans gave us.”

“Yes, because they gave them to us.” Murray spit the word from his mouth as if it offended him just as a bad morsel of meat would. “I do not wish to be named by them, nor for their religion. If they desire us to have names, I will name myself.”

“Very well, Murray.” The name tripped up John’s tongue. His brother grinned happily at the sound. If the distinction made him happy, that was all that mattered to John. “Go explore and report back. Just… don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“So everything short of setting the city ablaze.” Murray gently bumped him with his shoulder. “What about you? Not interested in seeing what humans have been up to the last one thousand years?”

A tremor ran through John’s wing. “No, no. I--” He cleared his throat, trying to fight back the terror he had first felt upon waking. He offered a weak smile to the both of them. “Someone needs to protect the castle after all.”

 

* * *

 

It came louder than the sound of beating wings. A great wind accompanied the thud and whoop of the beast and from its innards humans slid from rope. They were armored and though John could not make sense of their weapons, he knew an attack when he saw one. One of Fantomas’s guards shouted the alert, confirming what John already knew to be true. His clansmen were gone, but he would defend the castle as long as it stood.

The first pop crumbled a guard nearby, followed by a series of louder, faster pops. Something pinged against the stonework and flung chips of stone past John. Something whizzed past his ear. Arrows, or something like it. But a faster bow was no challenge for him. No matter what new things humans created, the tactic was the same: close in fast and render their weapons useless.

John bunched his legs and pounced, claws and teeth at the ready. He knocked the weapon out of one assailant’s hands and smacked another off their feet with his tail. Easy work. These humans were no trained warriors, built for true hand-to-hand combat. They relied too heavily on their weapons. He slashed at the one just getting to their feet, ripping through the layers of cloth that they had foolish worn into combat. Tough material was no match for his sharp claws.

To his left he heard a shout. One of the invaders raised a small metal object then threw it. A bright light flashed followed by a puff of grey smoke that quickly spread. More sorcery. John coughed and whipped hastily at his nose, then charged into the smoke. He tracked the sound of the man who had thrown it, listening for his footsteps. A shape appeared through the haze and John tackled it. He punched the man hard enough to crack his helmet then moved onto the next figure.

Distantly, he heard the sound of Fantomas’s guards fighting back against the small army. Even as he turned to help them, an explosion ripped through the castle. The force of it knocked John to his knees. Not this time. He would not fail this time. He grabbed a large stone, muscles straining, and hefted it toward the largest group of soldiers. It caused them to scatter, though it missed its mark. The boulder soared over the edge of the building and down into the road below. John howled in triumph as he watched the invading force flee to the beast that had carried them here.

Victory briefly replaced the taste of ash and regret on his tongue.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, well I don’t care what _you_ insist on. That wasn’t a bloody generator exploding. That was gunfire.” Lestrade’s face turned an angry shade of red. “Unless you want me to bring the entire force of Scotland Yard down on your head, you are going to get out of my way and let me do my job.” He edged closer to the man attempting to bar their way into the building. “So, how about it? Handcuffs or are you going to be nice and polite and get out of my way?”

The lift dinged nearby and out stepped another man. Lestrade reached for his handcuffs.

“There will be no need for that, detective. I apologize for my assistant’s behavior. Sebastian is always eager to preserve the public image.” He clutched Sebastian by the elbow and guided him away from Lestrade. “As I said, Sebastian, that story is for the press. Not the police.” He waved Sebastian off before extending a hand. “Gerard Fantomas. I’m glad that New Scotland Yard’s finest is on the case. If you and your partner would like to come with me, I can explain what happened.”

Lestrade turned to Sherlock and mouthed the word 'partner', a mixture of disbelief and amusement warring on his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed Fantomas towards the lift. Once the door closed, Fantomas spoke again.

“I am afraid, gentlemen, that tonight my home was attacked by a rival corporation.”

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow. “Didn’t know that computer business was so cutthroat.”

“Usually, it isn’t.” Fantomas sighed.

“But you are about to go live with something interesting, something that will change the playing field. You’ve been working on it for years, toiling away in secret, and now, the eve before your big reveal, your enemies decided to strike,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Ignore him. He does that.”

“Obvious. The question is, why would they chose to actually attack? Gunfire and explosions aren’t the usual for a collection of people who spend all day at their desks.”

The lift doors opened as Fantomas nodded. “I’m afraid that is partially my fault. I keep both copies of my work here at home, under twenty-four hour surveillance. It had become the worst kept secret that I had hired more security for my home. The attack you heard was only a distraction, something to keep my men busy. The true force slipped in during the chaos and made off with my prototypes. I can show you footage of the attack, though it is heavily obscured by a smoke grenade.”

“Lead the way.” Once Fantomas’s back was turned, Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock and hitched his chin in the opposite direction. Before he could complete the movement, Sherlock was already halfway down the hall, moving away from them.

 

* * *

 

For having just been attacked, the guards were easy enough to slip past. Sherlock darted down the hallway, ignoring locked rooms on other side of him. Video feeds lied just as often as people did. When you added in a man who ran a multi-million pound company that specialized in technology, the chance of the video feed being useful dropped significantly. No, Sherlock trusted his own senses more.

He ascended another set of stairs. Clean, fresh plaster gave way to dark, aged stone and the windows transformed into arrow slits. Fascinating. Fantomas had integrated a castle into his upper class flat in a nearly seamless design. Sherlock ran a gloved hand along the wall. Impossible to place the exact date of the structure, but the rocks were uniform, suggesting all of it had come from the same castle. The question was: why?

Taking another turn, Sherlock stepped out onto a parapet. The cold wind buffeted at him and this high up, the lights of the emergency vehicles below were nothing more than weak fireflies. He stooped and pulled out his magnifier and torch. He clenched the torch between his teeth before setting about studying the floor. More claw marks, like the ones he had seen on the boulder below, adorned the surface of the ground, along with scorch marks. Whatever caused it was certainly powerful and quick, though smaller than himself.

He shifted his weight and his foot kicked a bit of metal. It pinged against the wall running along the parapet. Running his fingers along the dark space, he finally found the culprit: a sizeable bullet casing, possibly from a semi-automatic rifle. Fantomas certainly had his fingers in far more pies than he let on. Military grade weaponry to steal a computer program? Unlikely.

His thoughts scattered, broken at the sound of someone approaching him. He shifted his torch into his hand and shoved the bullet casing into his coat. Spinning around, a clever lie began to form on the tip of his tongue. It died there.

A set of glowing eyes peered at him through the darkness, followed by a low growl. Far too large to be a dog, Sherlock estimated that it came to his shoulder.

“What are you doing in _my_ castle?”

The voice sounded human, but there was a deep gravel to it that suggested something darker, stranger. Sherlock raised his torch. _Ah, so that’s the source of the claw marks._ His thoughts danced giddily, torn between shock and fascination. A man with wings, claws, a tail? A thing of fantasy, yet all evidence suggested that the creature was indeed right there. Sherlock suppressed the urge to giggle. He had never seen something so glorious in all his life. Sherlock flashed the torch over the rest of his form. Smooth, strong muscle bunched under tan skin, hinting at years of training. Blond hair barely hid the small horned nubs which crested the top of his forehead. The only clothing he wore was a kilt and sporran, finely made but not enough to keep a person warm. Each thought flitted across Sherlock’s mind, quickly being filed away in his mind palace.

“I will ask you again, human, why are you here?” He stepped forward, nearly close enough to touch. This close Sherlock smelled his scent, earthy like fresh grass, and saw the sharp angle of his incisors. The man’s nostrils flared and his brow twisted, rage giving way to confusion. He sniffed again then leaned in close to Sherlock’s face.

The primal part of his brain screamed at Sherlock to get away, to run, but his curiosity won out. The glow of his eyes died and for the first time Sherlock could see the dark blue of the man’s eyes. The deep rumble emanating from his chest died and he moved closer still to Sherlock. Great huffs of air came from his nose, reminding Sherlock of a bloodhound on the scent of a killer.

Sherlock leaned back, his hip hitting the stone behind him. The rock teetered and gave away, and he stumbled back, arms pinwheeling for purchase. There was nothing but air. He felt himself tilt over the edge and then an arm shot out and closed around his wrist. The man pulled him to his chest, setting Sherlock’s feet once more on solid ground. Sherlock dug his fingers into the man’s arm as he tried to shake the feeling of the world tipping around him. Once sure that the ground was solid underneath him, Sherlock loosened his grip. The man kept a firm hold on him and stared up at his face in wonder.

“William?”

 

 


End file.
